


Paying Court

by meguri_aite



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Auguste (Captive Prince) Lives, Fake/Pretend Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-15
Updated: 2020-02-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:02:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22232224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meguri_aite/pseuds/meguri_aite
Summary: While in Arles on a diplomatic mission, Damen is approached with a very Veretian proposition.
Relationships: Damen/Laurent (Captive Prince)
Comments: 52
Kudos: 343
Collections: Chocolate Box - Round 5





	Paying Court

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pleurer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pleurer/gifts).



By the time Damen reaches his guest quarters — dizzyingly ornate, like everything in the palace, and more opulent than average in honor of his status — his only thought is that of the bed. 

His visit to Arles has been a series of negotiations and good will demonstrations, painstaking labor over maps and treaties, and many late-night conversations with Auguste. By the end of each day he feels that together with his brother of Vere, they have laid another stone to cement the alliance of their kingdoms, and that he’d be less tired if they had been paving real roads.

Damen closes the heavy oak door and leans for a moment against it. The thought of the royal baths is a temptation, but one he is too weary to succumb to.

It must be that tired, accomplished glow that has dulled his senses. For it is not until he takes two steps into the room that he notices he is not alone in it.

“Prince Damianos.”

The young man speaks the same instant that Damen sees him, seated compactly on the reclining couch. 

Damen’s first thought is a dizzying one of home. In Ios, a night with a beautiful pleasure slave from the royal gardens is a gift reserved for the highest guests.

But this is no Ios, and Vere has no slaves, only contract-bought pets. 

And the young man, for all his exquisite beauty, is no Veretian pet. 

An inexcusably long moment later, Damen finally takes in the starburst embroidered in gold thread on the shoulder of the man’s dark jacket, and the glint of a circlet under his pale gold hair. Damen’s heart takes a guilty plunge at the audacity of his first thought, because he finally recognizes the man.

“Your Highness. You have grown.”

For indeed the golden hair, now long enough to brush at his shoulders, curious blue eyes and sharp, translucent features add up to the picture of Prince Laurent. Auguste’s younger brother, who Damen last saw as a silent, wide-eyed shadow trailing behind Auguste at the camp at Marlas. 

“Surely not to the point of having grown into a full-title address,” Laurent says. There is a shadow at the corner of his mouth that hides a half-smile. “I remember you had no trouble calling me just by my name, before.”

The Laurent he remembers was a child, quiet and shaken by the war. The young man speaking to him now is clearly not one. Even seated, his form is lithe and in proportion. The low light from the last burning logs in the fireplace catches in his hair, tucked behind one ear on one side and loosely framing his face on the other, like a curtain of molten gold.

“Prince Laurent,” Damen says, finding his voice and manners at last. “What a pleasant surprise.”

Laurent rises on the reclining couch only to move to the side, and gracefully gestures Damen to take a seat next to him. Damen obliges.

He has no idea what is happening.

Laurent must have sensed his puzzlement, because he answers Damen’s question before Damen can put it into words. “I realize my appearance in your quarters must feel like an intrusion, and at this hour, too. Thank you for being such a good game about this,” Laurent says. His smile is an invitation to conspiracy, and Damen feels his blood spike with curiosity and anticipation.

“I had not realized you’d be back to Arles already,” he says. “I was expecting you’d join us on the heels of the Patran delegation.”

“You were not misinformed. And yet this is exactly why I had to come back sooner.” Laurent leans slightly towards him, his tone turning serious and business-like. “I needed to talk to you. In private.”

Another inopportune, misplaced image blazes up in Damen’s mind, scattering all thought and leaving chaos in its wake. With a colossal effort of will, he chases it away and makes himself listen to what Laurent is actually saying.

“My brother has always spoken of you as his trusted ally and friend. I was hoping you could extend a sliver of the same confidence to me, on this occasion.”

“I am intrigued,” Damen confesses. “You have my full attention — and my aid in friendship, of course.”

A smile flickers on Laurent’s face again, lighting it up from within. “I rely on your discretion, Prince Damianos,” he says, biting into his lower lip — a gesture betraying nervousness that Damen follows with his eyes. Damen remembers to nod. “The matter is delicate.”

Laurent gives him a long, searching look. Steeling himself to continue, Damen guesses, and returns Laurent’s gaze steadily.

“I need you to pay court to me.”

The words fall on his ears and refuse to arrange themselves into a sentence.

Damen wants to shake his head like a wet dog, in an absurd hope that the words would rattle inside and fall into places where they make sense, but reconsiders so as to not give Laurent the wrong idea. Laurent isn’t at fault that Damen’s brain was not ready for him. It has been a tiring day.

Still, Laurent must have taken his silence for a contemplation of rejection, because he hurries to continue, in a tone of apology. “By design, it would have to be a public affair — it cannot be otherwise, for it to work. Oh — but I should have said so from the start. It would be an inconvenience for a few days only. The favour I ask of you is only for as long as the Patran delegation is here.”

Finally, Damen recognizes the shape of the meaning behind these words. This is Vere, a court famed for intrigue, and evidently he is being roped into one.

“Is that performance for the benefit of Prince Torveld?” Damen asks. He guesses Laurent means to incite jealousy in his guest from Bazal. This trick is as old as the world, but it is also simple and crude. Damen feels a twinge of disappointment. He has been led to believe the Veretian court appreciated more complex games.

“You have guessed correctly. He arrives on the pretext of re-negotiating wool trade agreements, but that alone is not a matter that would justify a personal visit. Ambassadors at both courts are perfectly equipped to handle proposed trade changes.”

“I am sure there are better ways to secure his attention,” Damen interrupts him, not unkindly. “I do not know Torveld personally, but I have heard him to be a reasonable man who prefers simple honesty to going around in circles.” 

“Secure his attention?” Laurent repeats slowly, as if Damen hadn’t spoken in Laurent’s own language. “What gave you the impression — But I must apologize. I should have been clearer from the start.” Laurent shifts in his seat, bending one knee under himself, so that he faces Damen directly. “My goal is not to encourage his affection. I am afraid someone has been doing this job for me.”

This is political, Damen realizes. 

A proper Veretian move, when frivolous distractions conceal a solid political intent. He scrutinizes Laurent’s face, turned up on him in explanation, a patient, level look in his eyes. It seems that unlike his older brother, Laurent grew up more naturally attuned to the Veretian ways. Damen thinks it was his luck — his and their two kingdoms’ — that it was Auguste who had faced him, one on one, four years ago at Marlas. It is hard to imagine that with anyone less open and direct, the war tents could have turned into negotiation tables, within the space of one handshake and a day.

“So you believe he comes thinking to find you an agreeable — prospect.” Damen almost fumbles on the choice of word, but his summary gets a nod out of Laurent. “And you would like to discourage his attention.” Another nod. “Have you spoken to Auguste about it?” If there is still a chance this Veretian song and dance can be someone else’s headache, Damen is tempted to take it. His agenda is full already. He did not come here prepared to accommodate scheming princelings.

“Of course, Auguste could put an end to this immediately,” Laurent agrees. “And bury his hopes of shaking hands on new patrol routes along the mountain passes through the Vaskian range. Prince Torveld has spent most of his youth patrolling the border with Vask, and understands the pattern of wild border raids better than anyone. His personal visit to the court is a rare opportunity, and I want Auguste to make the most of it.”

Damen leans back on the couch and looks at Laurent again, trying to adjust to the new knowledge of him as an adult. He sees a beautiful young man, precise in his graceful proportions like a classic work of art, and he sees a complex Veretian labyrinth of a mind, which thinks in trapdoors and winding spirals. At the same time, this is still the same boy who adores his brother above all else in the world. The picture, with all the layers come together, is hard to stop looking at. 

Damen suspects that this newfound appreciation for complicated things is a sign he has been at Arles too long.

“So you want to let him down gently,” Damen says. Suddenly good humor has returned to him, and the situation starts to look less like court intrigue and more like an adventure. “In a way that would let you avoid his advances, and leave Auguste to negotiate his border patrols with a clear conscience.”

“Exactly that. So do you think you can find it in you to humor me, with this request?” For an attractive young man proposing romance, Laurent sounds a lot like a tactician suggesting a calculated maneuver, Damen thinks warmly.

“I’ll try my best,” he says.

“Excellent!” Laurent stretches out his hand for a handshake. Holding Damen’s hand for a second longer than necessary, he breaks out in a boyish grin. “Shouldn’t be too strenuous a chore. I’m not that hard to get.” 

  
  


True to his word, Damen starts on his promise as soon as the next morning.

The palace at Arles wakes up later than Ios. The courtesans’ late nights of entertainment naturally lead into indulgent, late mornings. Damen usually wakes up with the sun; the soldier in him has never stomached indulgence well. The servants in Arles had picked up on his habit quickly, and he has gotten used to taking his breakfast served in the palace gardens. In that early hour, the garden is a lush, quiet space, rich with the fragrance of flowers heavy with dew. 

Today he makes a small detour before finding his way to the gardens.

“Is His Highness up at this hour?” he asks one of the men standing guard in this wing of the palace. A short walk from his quarters in one direction, and immediately adjacent to Auguste’s in the other — he doesn’t have to guess too long where to find Laurent’s rooms. 

The man gives him a bewildered stare. Damen doesn’t press. He didn’t have much hope he’d find Laurent awake, given the late hour of his return. “Send the Prince a message once he wakes up that he’s welcome to join me for breakfast in the gardens, should he so wish.”

The guard nods and leaves to pass the message inside. Damen is already walking away when a voice stops him in his tracks.

“Prince Damianos.”

Laurent himself appears from the carved stone archway leading to his rooms and walks up to Damen. His hair is in a loose knot at the nape of his head, and he hasn’t put on a jacket yet. The soft folds of his white shirt are held together by a delicate web of laces — a true Veretian creation. The prince looks rumpled, Damen notices with a smile.

“Were you looking for me?” Laurent asks. His tone is polite and inquisitive, but at this distance, Damen can see he is a little out of breath.

“I didn’t mean to rush you,” he says, apologetic. “I only came by to see if you would like to join me for breakfast, once you were up. Have I disturbed your sleep?”

Laurent shakes his head. A stray strand of gold escapes the knot and falls into his face, and he absently tucks it behind his ear. “A breakfast. But no one is up at this hour to see it.”

The thought had not occurred to Damen. “I thought we could start by having a comfortable conversation. I want to learn more about you,” he says in complete honesty. 

Laurent looks at him, as if it was Damen who was in the habit of talking in riddles. But in a moment, the surprised look in his blue eyes changes into understanding. “Method acting!” he says. “Why, I am impressed. That  _ is  _ a good move.”

Damen, who hadn’t planned further than monopolizing Laurent’s time before his own scheduled meetings swept him up, finds himself going along with Laurent’s explanation.

“Give me a minute and I will join you in the gardens. I woke up early but stayed in to read, and haven’t even dressed properly.” Laurent tugs at his sleeve as if it was a skimpy undershirt and not layers of finest Veretian silk.

“I think you could stand to dress a little less,” Damen says. Laurent’s eyes widen, and Damen hastens to clarify, “The Veretians in general dress too elaborately, to my eyes — I don’t know how much time on average one spends tying all these layers of fine clothes together. It is not so in my homeland.”

Laurent pointedly looks at the cut of Damen’s chiton. “The advantages of Akielon fashions are rather hard to miss.”

Damen laughs and leaves first.

  
  


Somehow, Laurent’s company does not disturb the tranquil beauty of the garden. Watching the slanted morning sunlight delicately kiss his face as it falls through the ornate filigree of the pavilion walls, Damen thinks he rather complements it. 

“You are not eating much,” Laurent notices. “Or talking, for that matter.”

Damen laughs, caught red-handed. “You are right. I was distracted, looking at you.”

At that, Laurent’s face catches fire. What is natural among lovers seems to take him by surprise, making him look sweet like youth itself, and not at all like someone who propositions near-strangers for political gain.

“My words fluster you,” Damen observes. “Have you not had lovers before? Or have they courted you differently? The customs in Vere differ so much from our own, sometimes.”

Laurent coughs delicately and takes a sip of clear water. 

“Our customs diverge mostly on what is acceptable outside marriage,” he says. “I don’t think you need to change your ways, in this case. They’re — adequate.” Grudgingly, he adds, “I don’t think anyone would fail to see you paying attendance.”

Laurent hasn’t answered his first question, Damen notices with amusement. For someone who has not so long ago crossed into adulthood, the subject might still be touchy. 

“I doubt you have a shortage of suitors, though,” he muses. “Even if you hadn’t enlisted my help, and just let things play out, someone was bound to approach you.”

Laurent takes another long sip from his goblet before he answers him. “I am not comfortable leaving this much to chance,” he says, eventually. “And there is a matter of — personalities.”

“So how did mine make the cut?” Damen asks, genuinely curious. He suspects another political play at hand. And instead of taking offence, he finds he wants to hear Laurent’s explanation.

Laurent turns to him with an expression of wide-eyed innocence that Damen is learning to associate with circumventing the truth. “Why, so that no one could have any doubts about the sincerity of my infatuation with you. Do you need me to recite the full list of what makes you a desirable catch in at least two kingdoms? Alternatively, I could just offer you a full-body mirror.”

Sweetly delivered, the white lie gets a heartfelt laugh out of Damen. “When Auguste told me about you, he should have mentioned you are a handful.”

“Did someone call my name? Is someone having fun  _ without me _ , little brother?”

“Auguste!”

Laurent crumbles his napkin, his body stilled in an aborted motion: a joyful urge to run out and greet Auguste warring with a desire for propriety. Auguste, who is now steps away from their pavilion, grins in the face of Laurent’s struggle and opens his arms in an invitation. Damen watches, fond, as Laurent carefully extricates himself from the table and moves to put his arms around his brother. Auguste laughs, evidently unfooled by the performance, envelopes him in a hug and twirls him a little, as if Laurent was still a kid not tall enough to climb into a saddle on his own.

“Auguste,” Laurent says again, stifling a laugh against his brother’s shoulder. “Let me down.” Damen notices that Laurent doesn’t actually try to break out of the embrace. 

“It’s good to see you, little brother,” Auguste says, unrepentant. “I was hoping to greet you the first thing this morning, and what do I find? You are out fraternizing with Akielons.” 

“You could sound less happy about that,” Laurent huffs as he steps away. Damen grins and gestures both of them to join the table.

“Why shouldn’t I be happy,” Auguste says, once they are seated. “Damen is a good friend, and you’ve always liked him. Or was it some other younger brother of mine who moped a full week when he learnt that his visit to Fontaine overlapped with Damen’s arrival to Arles?”

“Auguste,” Laurent groans, in the same tone that every younger sibling occasionally employs even with most loving older brothers. “Do not embarrass me in front of our guest.”

Damen notices the high color is back to Laurent’s cheeks, and suppresses a smile. It is so much like Laurent, he is beginning to learn — to be clever enough to lay the groundwork for his next steps far in advance, and to be young enough still to let teasing affect him. He should have realized Laurent would be ready with an explanation that sits well with Auguste. A doting brother like him would hardly deny him anything if he thought Laurent wanted it.

A twinge of guilt pulls at Damen’s stomach. Even with no ill intent of his own, he does not like the idea of deceiving Auguste — someone he respects and holds in highest regards as a fellow leader, and loves dearly as a friend.

He makes a mental note to try to talk Laurent out of his plan.

“If you have eaten already, can I invite you for a morning ride, perhaps?” Auguste says. “The Patrans arrive in the afternoon, and my castellan has always said I only get in the way in the last hours of preparation before guests come.”

To try  _ to remember _ to talk Laurent out of it, Damen thinks. Laurent’s smile, directed at both of them, is artless and contagious.

  
  


The Patrans, when they arrive, are given a fittingly splendid welcome. 

“That’s because Auguste wants to see whose sensibilities can be tickled faster, Akielon or Patran.” Damen remembers Laurent’s words, whispered to him just before he disappeared back to his quarters. Damen’s lips twitch in an involuntary smile.

“What’s got your attention?” Auguste says, inclining his head to him. By the Veretian protocol, Damen stands by his left hand — the place of honor for the highest-ranking noble who is not of the Vere royal family. Auguste’s castellan, by then having despaired to attain the order he felt proper for the occasion, turns to them with a silent plea to at least stand in their assigned places. 

“Just recalling something Laurent said earlier. I wonder if he is running any bets on who is less used to the Arles splendor and decadence, us or the Patrans.”

Auguste’s eyes crinkle, but he doesn’t laugh — the castellan shoots them a suspicious look, but they are both still at the head of the table, standing straight and ready to greet the guests. “He might, but I’m never betting against Laurent,” Auguste says, lowering his voice to a whisper. “Speaking of, I can’t believe you did! No one in their right mind ever races against Laurent for any stakes, especially not for an undetermined favour.” He shakes his head in stately disapproval.

“How was I to know that there was more than one sibling in the Veretian royal family who could outdo me on horseback?” Damen laments good-naturedly. “One was already too many.”

Auguste huffs. “I hope the noble spirit of sportsmanship hasn’t fled you after being trounced so thoroughly. Someone has to keep me company in the friendly competitions with Prince Torveld and his people, as Laurent won’t let me sic him on our unsuspecting guests.”

Does anyone ever expect Laurent, Damen thinks.

“Did he tell you yet what’s on his mind?” Auguste asks, not without glee. “I’d have some measure of fear, in your place. He has no shame or mercy when it comes to calling in favours. I vividly remember that one time when he made me play act all the parts in this children’s play about three evil witches — costume props and funny voices and everything. It was his favourite play as a child, he told me — lied through his teeth, all to watch me cast magical spells draped in silks borrowed from Elysee’s pets. As if I would ever forget his real favourite book was about horses.”

Damen tries to imagine the scene, but the only thing he can see in his mind’s eye is Laurent’s face — sweetly earnest and innocent, as he makes people jump through the hoops of his making.

“But you’re not his soft-hearted big brother. You don’t actually have to play along with any of Laurent’s schemes if you don’t want to.”

Damen’s heart gives a leap, but Auguste’s face wears the same open, straightforward expression as usual.

Damen is spared having to say anything further — he sees the castellan wave the footmen to open the door, and the Patran delegation enters the hall, headed by Torveld.

“Your Majesty. Your Highness.”

Torveld is not a presence as radiant as Auguste, but Damen likes his well-grounded, unassuming bearing. He has the stature of a man who spent his youth in a saddle, leading cavalry chases across the Vaskian steppes — which is exactly what he did.

“His Highness Prince Laurent hasn’t arrived yet?” Torveld inquires after ceremonial handshakes and embraces. Damen can’t help looking at a spot to Auguste’s right, which remains conspicuously empty.

“My brother will join us later. He has only just returned to Arles. Please forgive him his delay — he is more of a scholar than soldier in matters of protocol,” Auguste says, with good humor. Damen has a feeling Auguste has a variety of well-rehearsed explanations to choose from, for occasions of Laurent slipping in and out of state affairs.

Torveld accepts the explanation gracefully, presents his gifts to both royal houses in attendance — richly decorated saddles from Bazal’s most skilled craftsmen — and the reception starts.

The Patrans are a brother culture to Damen’s own, their people shaped by an Akielos-hot sun and chilly winds blowing from Ver-Tan. Torveld’s retinue dissolves in circles of Veretian courtiers, gravitating ever so often to Damen’s own men for a raised glass and a friendly chat. Their countries have extensive ties, and he wouldn’t be surprised if some of his countrymen met their long-time acquaintances today.

He gives the hall a sweeping glance. He doesn’t spot Laurent anywhere in the crowd, and his disappointment is genuine. The prince’s golden looks make him easy to notice, and his barbed honey wits make his company easy to miss.

Besides, how is he supposed to court someone who isn’t even there?

The party continues late into the evening. The retinues break into smaller groups and circles. The evening’s entertainments charm the eye and rouse the senses — with complicated delicacies, rich fragrances, elaborate dresses. The pets are heavily jeweled and artfully painted, and they playfully balance flirting with the guests with maneuvering them according to their master’s wishes — but there is nothing Damen would call too shocking or obscene. Auguste’s court, for all Laurent’s jokes about scandalizing the foreigners, knows how to catch the eye with extravagance and push frivolity more into the shade.

Damen talks to one of high-ranking Patran officers, a woman with the unmistakable coloring and self-assurance of someone with a clear Vaskian descent — a long, animated debate about the advantages of spears over hunting bows. He also exchanges a few words with one of Torveld’s advisors, a stout man in his sixties called Bendt, before he is swept away by one of the Veretian councillors.

Damen is soon drawn into Auguste’s conversation with Torveld: the matter of wool trade agreements must not have warranted much interest, because they are now discussing Vaskian influences in Patran cavalry formations. 

Remembering what Laurent had said before, Damen asks about mountain patrols around the state borders. The subject gets an immediate response from Torveld, who slaps his own knee and says, “Those goddamn free tribes! You’d think Empress Vishkar would do something about them, because they don’t care about which side of the border they pilfer on, but that never happens!”

“Are they too hard to catch?” Auguste asks.

“I’m sure Skarva has warriors skilled enough to catch them. They just never send them out for this,” Torveld shakes his head. “Because to a Vaskian, raiding is not daylight piracy, it’s a long-standing tradition of proving yourself bold enough to seize what you want, and clever enough to get away with it. Skarva probably  _ recruits _ the best raiders.”

Damen laughs. “It wouldn’t be unheard of. Akielos has its own history with pirates. If you look closely at the family history of some of our admirals, you can trace quite a few of them to the other side of the law. You won’t have to go further than a few generations back.”

Torveld doesn’t need further prompting to delve into the subject. Soon enough, he starts moving goblets and bowls on the table to signify some landmarks - a layered cake with an elaborate icing stands for Aquitart, on one side, an artfully carved sugar melon becomes the mountain peak closest to the Patran border, and the silver tableware is being arranged and rearranged by three pairs of hands to show the routes criss-crossing their way across four kingdoms.

They only break apart when Torveld’s advisor returns to plead that today is an evening for entertainment, and would their royal highnesses and majesties like to enjoy something more lighthearted for the night. 

“You are absolutely right, Councillor Bendt,” Auguste says. “I have been neglecting my host duties. We will have time to continue the conversation later. Have you tried the truffles from Toutaine?”

Damen is too full for more bite-sized delicacies. He tries not to feel bored at an impending prospect of more Veretian entertainment. He catches the eye of the Patran officer with Vask in her high cheekbones and slanted eyes — Mara is her name, he recalls — and contemplates asking what she knows about the border raiders.

“Hello, lover.”

The words are the softest whisper by his ear, barely loud enough for Damen to hear them in the crowded hall. But they ring in his ears like a sword clashing against a shield, calling for attention.

“Laurent,” he says, turning in his chair just in time to catch a smile hide in the corner of Laurent’s mouth as he straightens up. “I didn’t think you’d join us today.”

Torveld and August, too, notice his arrival. Damen is acutely aware of Laurent’s fingertips brushing over his shoulder as his arm rests on the back of Damen’s chair. 

“Your Highness. It is a pleasure to see you,” Torveld rises to greet him. He has to be aware of where and how Laurent stands, too, Damen thinks. Auguste only nods in greeting; he is eating grapes.

“My apologies for not greeting you on arrival,” Laurent says, all bashful courtesy. “It was my intention, but the ride to Arles has worn me down quite a bit.”

Damen recalls the easy confidence of Laurent in the saddle, moving as one with his mare as he pulled ahead and left Damen in the dust. Laurent’s face, bright with the simple joy of exertion.

He doesn’t meet Auguste’s eyes, or Laurent’s.

“Like the sweetest meal, you appear at the very end of the evening,” Torveld offers, in an admiring tone. 

Damen doesn’t meet his eyes, either.

“I’m afraid Laurent has just missed the dessert,” Auguste says, wiping his hands on a piece of fragrant, steamed cloth by his plate. “But they will soon start serving sweet summer wine outside, the generous gift of Akielos. Perhaps you would like to join us there, Laurent, and escort our guests to the gardens?”

“Of course.” Laurent dips his head gracefully, puts a proprietary hand over Damen’s shoulder. “It would be my pleasure. Would you care to accompany me, Prince Damianos?”

Damen leaves his chair as surely as if he was led by an ornate leash, the other end of which is wrapped around Laurent’s slim wrist.

He doesn’t wait to see if Torveld and Auguste follow them.

  
  


“I don’t really know why you asked me to court you. You’re doing a fine job of arranging things yourself. And dodging, for that matter.”

Damen has let Laurent lead him into the gardens, and possibly around the gardens, in several circuits. If there is anyone in Vere who hasn’t seen them walk side by side yet, they were clearly not important enough to be invited to the palace that night.

Damen expects a lighthearted barb in response. When it doesn’t come, he slows down and tugs Laurent to stop.

“Where are we going?”

Laurent must have been lost in thought, because he looks up at him with a startled expression. “I,” he says, and pauses. “I’m not sure, actually. What would you like to do?”

“Let’s sit down somewhere,” Damen points to one of the carved benches. They have wandered far enough into the garden to reach the orange orchard. There are fewer people here, but on a reception night like this, the orchard is alive with hushed voices and trailing laughter.

The bench Damen spotted is tucked under low-hanging branches of a tree, which must make a pleasant shelter from sunlight during the day, and at nighttime form a perfect alcove for those seeking privacy. Laurent seats himself on it, leaning back slightly and resting his weight on his arms. The light from the lanterns dotted along the garden paths doesn’t reach them here. Moonlight scattered by the branches is the only thing that illuminates Laurent’s face, turning it ageless and elusive, putting Damen in mind of the fairy folk so beloved by the Veretian tales.

A soft but unmistakable sound breaks through Damen’s reverie. Laurent hears it too, because he tilts his head to the side and smiles coyly. “Other guests don’t have any trouble deciding what they want to do.”

“At least in this your people are more open than mine,” Damen says. 

“Being open is not the same thing as being truthful,” Laurent says. He doesn’t look at all embarrassed by the stifled groans of lovers they both can hear but not see. “But do tell me how you would usually do it. No trysts in the gardens, I take it?”

Damen looks at him, amused. “Trysts in the gardens, as you say, can be arranged. They just usually don’t have quite the same audience.”

“And yet I hear the Akielon public favours long, demonstrative courting.”

“The point is not the audience,” Damen says. He can’t help feeling they are talking strategy again. “When I have eyes for one person only, I never think about who might be watching.”

“I’m sure you don’t.” Laurent’s face is inscrutable, which is why Damen keeps on looking. “Lucky women of Akielos.”

Mostly women, Damen thinks, but doesn’t say. It seems irrelevant at the moment.

“What kept you away from the reception?” he asks instead. “You weren’t simply avoiding Torveld’s admiration, were you?” Though he understands the temptation now: Torveld must be stronger with weapons than with words.

“What, you can’t believe my gentle constitution? My reputation of a quiet scholar?” Laurent asks, raising an eyebrow. “I’ll have you know I read a lot.”

Damen laughs. “I’d expect nothing less from you. Are all of your excuses made of carefully selected truths?”

Laurent lowers his lashes, as if Damen has just complimented him on his exquisite looks.

“I am not wrong, am I?” he says, lowering his voice.

Laurent leans closer, as if to whisper the answer into Damen’s ear.

“When in Vere, do as the Veretians do. I am calling in my favour.”

  
  


Athletic festivities are usually the part of any state visit that Damen finds least objectionable. No stranger to physical effort, he likes the simple joy of measuring himself against strong contenders, for stakes no higher than whose coin pays for the wine that flows after.

However, that has been before he was made to participate in full attire of a Veretian nobleman. 

“Curse those damn layers,” Damen mutters to himself, as he tries to move through familiar warm-up stances without paying too much mind to the restrictive movement of the clothes against his body. The embroidered vest, stiff with layers upon layers of gilded thread, hugs his torso like a corset, and there are bejewelled pieces of soft leather that the servants have laced around his forearms. Representing gauntlets, Damen assumes. The only practical thing about the entire outfit is the cut around the shoulders, allowing just enough movement for his sword arm. Without that much, he’d only be useful for target practice.

He would be hard to miss, with all these riches glinting on person. 

“Looking good there,” whistles someone behind his back. Damen turns to glare at Mara, Torveld’s Vaskian officer, as she takes in his appearance with an appraising glint that makes him think of horse traders. “Your Highness,” she adds like an afterthought.

She is not burdened with half as many embroidered fabrics, Damen notices resentfully. The Patran military style favours long sleeves and knee-length skirts made of leather stripes worn over trousers, an outfit designed to protect the wearer through long rides across the windblown steppes. It does not look like something that strives to outdo a wall tapestry, unlike Damen’s current clothes.

He does not doubt they are the height of local fashion.  _ Fit to dress a Veretian prince _ , Laurent’s handwritten note informed him, tucked into the package delivered to his rooms. So very thoughtful.

Damen’s eyes unerringly find Laurent in the crowd of courtiers lounging in the canopy shade of a large, sprawling tent for high-ranking spectators. Laurent turns his head away from his companion — Councillor Bendt — and raises the tips of his fingers in a lighthearted greeting, and Damen’s rage against everything Veretian takes a step back.

He fervently hopes that the contests will take his mind off the fact that Laurent is parading him around like a prized horse, and that Damen is letting him.

“I see our brother of Akielos honors us today greatly,” Auguste’s voice reaches him. Damen turns to answer with a joke ready on his lips, but Torveld’s presence at Auguste’s side makes him fall back on more courtly manners. 

“As an expression of thanks for the hospitality of Arles,” he says instead, “and to demonstrate that we are no strangers to each other’s customs.”

“Had I known about your intentions, I would have joined you,” booms Torveld. He doesn’t look put off by the idea of wearing a tapestry. “Though I doubt I’d have cut the same figure. Maybe on horseback, though,” he adds, with good humor.

Auguste laughs and claps Damen on the shoulder. “As your host, I must inform you that Damen should not be your biggest worry in riding contests. Vere can put up quite a fight, you know.”

Damen thinks of Laurent, probably absorbed in a conversation with one advisor or another, looking guileless and innocent as he sows his truthful lies and reaps secrets. He remembers Auguste’s words from earlier, that his brother prefers to keep his physical skills secret; that seems to be true of his other aspects as well. Damen wonders why. He doesn’t wonder why he wonders so much. 

Auguste must have intuited the subject of Damen’s thought, because his eyes crinkle when he catches Damen’s expression.

“Let’s open these games, then,” says Auguste. “The audience is waiting.”

Auguste’s opening speech is short and rousing, the contestants are eager, and the audience even more so. Damen throws himself into the games.

Hand-to-hand combat in Vere is fussier but ultimately easier than the wrestling they enjoy in Akielos, the grappling ever more difficult when the bodies are slick with oil, so Damen manages. Auguste wins the short distance horse race. In javelin-throwing, Mara is a fierce competition, and they are tied for the final bouts. The voices cheering encouragement and raising bets reach his ears, but he doesn’t pay them half a mind: the woman sends the javelin further than a person of her build should be able to, and peppers him with taunts that could wilt flowers all the while. 

“This is nothing. She’s a true demon with a spear on horseback,” Torveld boasts from the stands. He is not competing against her.

It is a good competition. Damen wins, and it is with a sense of having been pushed to get there, and a pleasant strain in his muscles. 

“You could have made a good warrior,” Mara bumps his shoulder. “If you were born in a saddle.”

Damen laughs. If he can take it from the Veretian royal family, hearing it from the daughter of the steppe winds stings even less.

“You could have made a good Akielon general,” he says. “If you had travelled further south.”

“Leave Torveld this, at least,” she snorts. “Your Highness.”

They both turn to look at the tents, where Torveld is bent over Laurent’s chair. Laurent has an expression of a person over whose chair Torveld has been bent for quite a while.

Damen’s feet take him to Laurent before Damen has decided on what he wants to say, so he simply says, “Prince Laurent. Torveld, good game.”

“So Torveld has been telling me,” Laurent says in a voice sweet enough to preserve fruit. With an effort, Damen keeps a straight face. 

“I must have bored him with all this talk of horses and men,” Torveld says, apologetic. “The Prince’s mind is made for finer things.”

Laurent lowers his eyelashes and murmurs polite assurances. 

“Congratulations, Prince Damianos,” Laurent addresses him then. “Even to my scholarly eyes, it looks like you are holding your own.”

Laurent’s scholarly eyes never stray below Damen’s collar, but he feels uncomfortable in his clothes in an entirely different manner. “Patras and Vere have great champions defending their banners,” he says, evenly.

“Like Mara,” Laurent says, the voice reaching a dangerous saturation of sugar in it.

“Like Mara,” Damen repeats, unsure why he feels like he is stepping on thin ice.

Torveld coughs into his fist. Laurent taps his foot, once.

It dawns on Damen that he may have arrived at his own performance without a script.

Laurent rearranges his hands on his lap at looks at him with a new challenge in his eyes. “Would you like a token of good luck, then? To help you against all these other great champions,” he says.

Damen nods, mouth dry.

While there is no similar custom in his homeland, Damen is aware of the tradition in Vere. They wear their liege’s colors into battle, which is why Damen’s elaborate outfits, while Veretian to the last button in design, are in red and gold of the Akielon lion. But when two lovers part ways before a battle, they may exchange tokens, usually in their house colors, to symbolically bind them together, and fend off misfortune and death. Laying claim on a person so that bad luck doesn’t.

His heart beating heavy in his chest, Damen watches as Laurent reaches an arm behind his own head, and carefully pulls at the cord that holds back his golden hair. 

It is a cord of dark blue and pale gold, of course. 

Laurent takes one of Damen’s hands by his wrist into his own and turns it palm up. Laurent’s fingers, as he ties the cord around Damen’s wrist, don’t even graze his skin — too many layers for that between them — and yet Damen burns like he has been branded. 

“There you go,” Laurent says. His voice is light and even, but from this distance Damen can see that the blue of Laurent’s eyes is now a thin stripe around his pupil, blown wide. 

It’s heady, like a punch of old Sicyan wine, which hits your head before it hits your legs. A contest doesn’t seem like a good idea anymore. Laying waste to kingdoms does. 

Or dunking his head in cold water.

Laurent lets go of his hand, and Damen takes a step back. 

“For good luck,” he says, and raises the cord to his lips.

  
  


The afternoon round of competitions is devoted solely to what the Veretians call a triathlon. It’s a mixed race where the athletes first cross a distance on foot, then, when they reach the shooting area, it’s a contest to hit the most targets in the shortest time, and the last stretch is a horse race, with spear-throwing at the finish line. As close to the finish line as possible without actually crossing it, and still in the saddle, the athletes throw the spear as far as they can. The winner is determined by both speed and accuracy. There are, of course, a number of smaller rules and traditions for each leg of a triathlon, but that is Vere for you. 

Auguste is a universal favorite and Vere’s reigning triathlon champion for many years running. Which is why the audience groans with one voice, when Auguste announces his withdrawal from the competition.

“You have seen me in the arena today. Allow me to be the spectator for once,” Auguste laughs.

“I don’t understand, are you cutting your losses early, or giving the rest of us a fair chance to win?” Torveld grumbles. “And here I was, hoping you’d show off those saddles from Bazal.”

“I’ll gladly do the honors,” says Damen. The horse that would be waiting for him at the last leg of the triathlon has already been ordered to be equipped with the rich gift from the Patrans. “The leatherwork masters in your country are of great renown, I thought it would be a shame to keep their work in storage.”

Torvelt nods, appeased.

The race starts off in a crowd, but by the end of the running distance it thins enough that there are only about ten people who reach the shooting range alongside Damen. One of them is Mara, he is unsurprised to see. Many are Veretian, inspired by the chance to grab the victory now that Auguste is not competing, he thinks.

Damen goes through his arrows fast, accuracy never having been his concern. He wants to win a few seconds of time to give him an edge over Mara, who, he has no doubt, is a true devil on horseback.

Whatever time he carves out, he quickly loses once Mara is in saddle. She catches up to him in no time, and they race the whole distance neck and neck at a pace that courts death, but the closer they are to the finish line, the more she inches ahead.

And then with a crack, the girth under Damen’s saddle snaps.

The whole thing slips and slides under his weight, and Damen, too absorbed in the race, wastes the precious first seconds of reaction time trying to maintain his center of gravity by pressure of his thighs alone. It’s a stupid idea, and he quickly remembers why when the horse bucks and throws him off, saddle and all.

He lands heavily on one side, the air knocked out of him and his ears ringing with impact. His bones are not broken, and miraculously, neither is his spear.

Mara throws a look over her shoulder to ascertain he isn’t dead, and sends her horse flying forward.

“What a devil,” Damen shakes his head, foggy after the fall. There is not much distance left to cover, but he doesn’t trust his feet to carry his still buzzing body all the way to the finish line. 

There is only one thing he can try at this point, so he does it.

Damen picks up the spear, makes a few steps to gain momentum, and throws it.

It lands over the finish line, but he doesn’t see where, exactly. With the ringing in his ears getting louder, he takes a seat right there on the ground, by the dropped saddle, and closes his eyes.

  
  


His consciousness must have swam for a few moments there, because when he opens his eyes, it looks like half of Auguste’s court has gathered by his side. A man in an awkward hat presses through the crowd, and starts inspecting Damen for injuries. The fog in Damen’s head has cleared up, but his protestations are thoroughly ignored by the physician.

“Prince Damianos has had enough victories for today, and should be allowed to rest.” Laurent’s voice cuts through the crowd. “I’ll escort him, you carry on.”

Damen doesn’t need an escort, but he welcomes Laurent’s company, and the offered excuse.

He thanks the doctor and shakes off all other well-wishers, passes on the message that the games should carry on without him, and accepts the reins for a fresh horse. He looks around for the Patran saddle, but doesn’t see it anywhere — a servant must have taken it away already.

They spend the ride back to the palace in silence; there is a cloud in Laurent’s face that Damen’s assurances that he is fine don’t succeed in chasing away. Laurent must be anxious to see him safely seated back in his rooms, Damen thinks, so he simply urges his horse forward.

When they reach Damen’s quarters, Damen invites Laurent inside, expecting him to decline to allow Damen the rest. To his surprise, Laurent nods and steps into the rooms, still looking absorbed in thought.

“I thought you were worried for my frail constitution,” Damen says, relieved to stretch out in a too-soft lounge chaise, a standard piece of Veretian interior decor which today Damen doesn’t find objectionable. “Or my poor performance at the triathlon, which may reflect badly on you.” Damen raises the hand that still has Laurent’s colors bound around his wrist. 

“I am worried,” Laurent says, letting a small smile break through the cloud on his countenance. “But my reputation is doing fine. If the judges can agree that throwing a spear from the ground, concussed, does not constitute a major violation of triathlon rules — well, you will have placed second.”

Damen shrugs. Laurent shakes his head, looking personally affronted with the situation. Damen wants to hold Laurent’s hand and press it to his face, and cannot think of a reason why he shouldn’t.

“I wanted to speak with you,” says Laurent.

“I’m listening.” 

“There is blood on your face,” Laurent says abruptly. Damen recognizes the remark as distraction, even though he doesn’t know from what. He patiently watches Laurent fetch a soft cloth, dip it into clear water, and closes his eyes as Laurent reaches out to dab Damen’s temple with it. His fingers are cool and light on Damen’s face. Damen gives in to the temptation to blindly turn his face into the palm of Laurent’s hand.

“I think someone might be trying to kill you,” Laurent says in a quiet voice.

Damen opens his eyes reluctantly, and only when Laurent drops his hand.

“Laurent,” he starts, not wanting to dismiss Laurent’s concern, but not concerned himself. “Is this about the fall? I have broken equipment before. It happens.”

“When one has too much brute strength, presumably.” Laurent’s lips twitch, but his expression quickly grows serious again. “I had the saddle removed and checked right away. The girth had been compromised”

Damen frowns. “A mistake, surely. Torveld is an honorable man, he would not have given such gifts with ill intent.”

“I agree with you there. I don’t think Torveld knew anything about it.”

Damen takes in Laurent’s conflicted expression, his thinned lips, and sits straighter in his chaise.

“Do you want to tell me what you know?” he asks gently. 

“No,” Laurent says, with feeling, and they both smile at that. “But I think you need to know. In case of further… accidents.”

Damen nods for Laurent to continue. 

“Remember I said there was someone steering Torveld’s attentions towards me? That wasn’t a lie.”

“I never thought it was,” Damen says, at which Laurent looks half-surprised, to Damen’s confusion. “Have you discovered who it was?”

“I have. I first got wind of it when I came across correspondence between … a Veretian nobleman and someone who was evidently a high-ranking courtier from Patras, speculating on a closer alliance between the royal families.” Laurent leaves a small pause for Damen to imagine the circumstances of just how he might have come across this. “They seemed to converge to the opinion that tightening the alliance between Vere and Akielos was a short-sighted strategy adopted by our young monarch, and a slight to the long-standing friendship with the people of Patras.” Laurent’s mouth curls down like the tip of a Vaskian skinning knife. “I did not know who exactly the Patran correspondent was, but it became clear what kind of an alliance they had in mind when the gifts and letters from Torveld started coming.”

“That is still not reason enough to suspect murder,” Damen says.

“There was something else I… found.” Laurent says. “A signet with an Akielon crest, among the papers.”

Damen’s chest squeezes unpleasantly. “Anything else?”

“I have seen the letters with the same crest in one more place,” Laurent says in place of an answer. “When I checked up on the Patran delegation on the day of their arrival.”

“By that, do you mean you used your host privileges to break into the rooms of your brother’s guests?” Damen clarifies, amused but not surprised. He has seen Laurent break into rooms before, after all.

Laurent doesn’t bother denying it. “That was one evening when they were all sure to be elsewhere. During the royal reception was the perfect time to find the mystery correspondent. I had not, however, expected to find letters sealed with the same Akielon signet among Councillor Bendt’s belongings.”

“Letters.”

Laurent nods. “Talking, incidentally, with the same discontent about the current situation between Vere and Akielos. And the rights to Sicyon and Delpheur, as it happens. It seems to me that Bendt is playing two games at once.”

Everything in Damen rises against the idea of a traitor in Akielon, but he still asks, “Have you kept any of the letters?”

Laurent shakes his head. “I did not want to raise an alarm, in case their absence was noticed. I did, however, keep a wax imprint of the signet. I keep it in my rooms, but I can draw it for you from memory.”

Laurent walks to the writing table, and Damen waits with a sense of foreboding to see what he comes back with.

When he sees Laurent’s drawing, it doesn’t make any sense.

“It’s Kastor’s personal crest,” Damen shakes his head. “Kastor is my brother.”

Laurent looks at him for a long, silent minute. “It is what I saw.”

“I believe this is what you saw,” says Damen, measuring each syllable like bitter medicine. “I don’t believe it is Kastor.”

The stiff line of Laurent’s shoulders moves a fraction. “I thought you would prefer to see it first.”

“I do. Thank you.” Damen crumples the piece of paper in his hand, wanting to shove it away from his eyes, away from his mind.

“What do you want to do now?” Laurent asks. 

“Now, we speak to Auguste.”

The relief in Laurent’s face is palpable, as if he expected Damen to call on him for secrecy, from his own brother and Damen’s friend.

Brothers and friends, closest allies to any man.

Damen tightens his fist around the paper.

They don’t have to go looking for Auguste. When he arrives to Damen’s rooms, he looks like he has galloped to the very walls of the Arles palace, the dust of the games arena still clinging to his clothes. 

He strides into the room and takes in the picture they make: Damen in his chaise, Laurent arranging a fresh cold compress on his brow.

“I’m here to inform you that at least one of us managed to escape the games without causing a scandal,” Auguste says, seating himself in one of the chairs. “Though I have to say, the games were not quite the same after you left. Are you well?”

Laurent snorts indelicately. Damen grins, and feels Lauren push the cloth over his entire face.

“I have had gentle ministering to,” Damen says, once he bats the wet rag off his face. “By your caring and nurturing brother.”

“Laurent, any idea who he is talking about?”

“The fall must have damaged his head,” Laurent murmurs in a tone fit for the deathbed of an elderly relative. “Bad hallucinations.”

“I’m not entirely sure this scene has been conjured by Damen’s fantasy, but I’ll take your word for it, brother dear.”

Laurent throws a glance at Damen, then turns to Auguste, all signs of mirth gone from his face.

“Brother, there is something you need to know.”

Laurent fills him in, in economical, precise sentences. He doesn’t name the implicated Veretian nobleman, but Auguste’s eyes tighten when Laurent mentions Chastillon in his explanations. Laurent sidesteps the ownership of Akielon signet, and looks startled when Damen steps in to supply that information in a slow, pained voice.

Auguste takes a moment to absorb the news. He doesn’t look happy, but neither does he look like a man who has stepped on a snake in his own home. Damen wonders if Auguste is more used to such things, in Vere.

Eventually, his eyes settle on Laurent again. “You have something else to say, brother. Let us hear it.”

Laurent’s eyes flash.

“I think you should speak to Torveld,” he starts off. 

  
  


The next day, the gossip sweeps through the palace that the Patran delegation has turned on one of their own.

“It’s that Vaskian woman,” the cook says, sniffing into his drooping moustache and instructing a junior kitchen boy to stir the sauce pot. “No good has ever come of either Vask — or women. Mark my words!” 

“I heard she wanted to kill the Akielon prince because she couldn’t bed him,” whispers one courtier to another, with a note of grudging approval in her voice.

“Do you think she will try to run back to Vask?” speculate the guardsmen on duty.

Damen walks the palace grim like a thundercloud. Everything in him protests against this, but at least he doesn’t have to put up any performance himself.

“Maintaining that look of suffering Akielon dignity will convince them better than anything else could,” Laurent tells him. “Have you heard, apparently she attempted to take revenge for your unorthodox performance at the games.” 

Damen bears it stoically and joylessly, and waits for news.

When the resolution comes, it is almost anticlimactic.

Damen, Auguste and Torveld are going through the proposed three-way patrol routes at the southern mountain range between the tree states, when one of Auguste’s personal guardsmen enters with a message for his liege.

Auguste receives the message and dismisses everyone in the room besides the three of them.

“Bendt has dispatched two messages,” he says. “We intercepted both of them.”

Torveld curses, low and filthy.

“Two?” Damen asks. There is still hope, flickering dimly, that the end of this tangle that ties to his home, his family, would come up empty.

Auguste nods. “One to Ios. One to Chastillon.” He sets both missives on the table, where they lie, conspicuous like the bloody spoils of war.

“Well,” sighs Torveld heavily. “My brother won't like it. He grew up with Bendt’s counsel.”

“He would not be the first man to discover a trusted advisor’s words soured into poison,” Auguste says, flint in his voice.

“That might be true, but — ” Torveld cuts himself off with a frustrated sigh.

“I would like to keep the letter to Ios,” Damen says, drawing both Auguste and Torveld’s attention. A lie. He wants nothing more than to burn it unopened.

Auguste gives him a long inscrutable look, but Torveld waves him off. “My account will be enough for Torgeir. I’ll write to either of you if I need anything. My first order of business will be restraining an old man and transporting him back in one piece. Mara was getting bored in her ‘confinement’ already, she can help me.” He shakes his head with clear distaste, and begs his leave.

Damen is left alone with Auguste.

“What are you going to do with it?” Auguste asks after a long minute has elapsed, and Damen has made no move to open Bendt’s letter to Ios.

“I don’t know,” he answers in complete honesty.

Auguste doesn’t say anything else for another long while.

“I am not going to offer unsolicited advice,” he says, “But know that you are not alone. Even when you don’t need an ally, you will find here a friend.”

Damen swallows a heavy lump in his throat. “Yes. Yes, my friend.”

“Then that’s enough of that.” Auguste opens his arms wide, as if to say he has nothing else, and refills both of their cups. It drains the pressure out of the moment, and Damen wants to enjoy the simplicity of it, except.

Except he has more to talk to Auguste about.

“I would like to court Laurent,” Damen says. The words come out rushed, far enough from a question, but too close to a confession for comfort.

Damen is squirming, if he is honest. It is not a familiar or a welcome feeling.

Auguste raises a single brow, looking nothing more like his brother in that moment. Damen’s discomfort goes up another notch. “As opposed to my brother courting you?”

Damen opens his mouth. Closes it. 

Earlier, Laurent had not mentioned more than his own suspicions that Torveld’s attentions were being directed towards him for political gain. Damen assumed that a more private conversation between the brothers followed, but perhaps not.

“What you have witnessed — Laurent had proposed this as a way to avoid Torveld’s attentions without having to outright refuse him. I obliged. But your brother — he has my attention, my genuine admiration, and I’d —”

“Allow me to rephrase that,” Auguste says with a wry smile. “My brother, undoubtedly worthy of all admiration and attention, approaches you with a proposition to court him.” Damen nods. “And you have been enjoying the time you spend with him.” Damen nods again. “While Laurent has got the object of his long-standing admiration pay court to him, and enjoy it enough to want to carry on doing it.”

When put like that, it does sound a lot like a perfectly Veretian stratagem that combines politics with pleasure. 

Damen contemplates the thought with growing fondness and exasperation.

“He played me, didn’t he.”

Auguste happily nods.

“I have to talk to Laurent,” Damen says, suddenly impatient to leave. He heads for the door without waiting for Auguste’s reply.

“If you still want to court him after that, invite him to Ios,” Auguste’s words catch him in his back. “The sun will do him some good.”


End file.
